by C. C. Gibbs
She turned so she could see his face. “I don’t know what I need.” She made a little gesture of hopelessness with her hands. “Other than you.” She smiled. “That part’s simple. Twenty-four/seven, stay within touching distance.”
“You’ve got my vote on that,” he said easily, refusing to give in to destructive thoughts, thinking he’d remember the feel of her in his arms, the ridiculous little flash of warmth, for a million years.
She wiggled her bottom, wanting him to come back from wherever he was, wanting him to smile. “And him too?”
“Yeah, he doesn’t know how to behave around you.” He gave a wry chuckle “Gun to his head, he’d still keep going if you wanted him to.”
“Thanks.” She looked up at him with a discreet curiosity. “Feeling a little better now?”
God, she was appealing, all wide-eyed innocence, like she’d be stepping on his toes if she asked him to fuck her or what was wrong or if something was wrong. “I’m good. I’m always good with you.” She was his treat in a world of endless chaos. “Come on, pussycat,” he said, rising from the sofa with her in his arms. “Let’s see if you can scream loud enough to make Natalie smile.”
“Jesus, for sure I won’t scream now,” she said, as he pulled back the quilt and placed her in the middle of the bed.
And she didn’t until the third time.
Several enjoyable hours later, Nicole was standing before the mirror in Rafe’s bedroom in Paris, turning this way and that, glancing over her shoulder, finally facing him with a tiny frown.
“Will this outfit do? You know better than I what’s proper in a sex club.”
Rafe, having dressed with his usual speed, was lounging in a chair, drinking a nineteen-year-old whiskey, admiring the view. Quickly censuring his first few comments about proper attire in a sex club, he said, “I’m not sure proper’s the right word, pussycat. But you look beautiful as usual, and that outfit is so damned sexy I’m going to have to spend all night fighting off the competition.”
Her little frown deepened. “Sexy as in I look like I’m selling it on the corner?”
“I’ve never actually seen anyone selling it on the corner,” he said, more or less honestly, “so I’ll wing it and say no.” Since Alessandra had sent him an e-mail of the invoice, he knew for a fact the only corner anyone would be selling it in this particular outfit was on the corner of six thousand euros.
“Good.” She smiled. “Thanks. This is all a little new to me.”
“Nothing to worry about. Just stay close so I don’t have to punch anyone.”
“I don’t want anyone but you”—she blew him a kiss—“so no punching required.”
He grinned. “Spoken with the peerless virtue I require in my faux fiancée.”
“Pshaw—this little thing?” Smiling widely, she thrust her left hand in his direction, and the unpretentious sapphire surrounded by diamonds on her left finger sparkled and gleamed.
“That little thing means I own you,” Rafe said, smiling back. He was putting his mark on her for the world for reasons entirely unclear. But he wasn’t looking for an escape route. At least not now.
“Only till the end of the month, when you get this back.” Nicole smiled. “I’ve never been fake engaged before, but so far I like it.”
“Good. I think it makes perfect sense. Like losing your brakes doing eighty.”
“Or going for broke.”
His grin had a reckless shine. “You and me on a runaway train, pussycat.”
They were both fully committed to their exuberant, intoxicating, fiercely impassioned, provisional game that overlooked reality, contravened practicalities, and allowed them to please and gratify themselves for twenty-six more days in the euphoric world of their choosing. Realistically less, but only one of them was privy to that information.
“Seriously, though, tiger, you’re not allowed to stray from my side. That outfit screams fuck me.”
Nicole was barely dressed: all lush boobs, tiny waist, and legs that went on forever. Her flowery silk bustier was a colorful design of pale cream and yellow roses on a scarlet background, her waist compressed to hands-span width, the tiny cups barely covering her nipples, her breasts pushed up into high, plump mounds by the taut boning. A short, swingy skirt in the same fabric complemented the bustier and spike heels with sparkly straps that wound up Nicole’s ankles pretty much signaled that fuck me wasn’t out of the question.
She smiled as she tossed a tiny embroidered purse over her shoulder. “I’ll cling to you like a lifeline in a storm.”
“Damn right you will.” This from a man who’d never asked a woman’s name before he fucked her. “Maybe you should wear a jacket. It’s cool at night.”
She looked up from checking the contents of her purse: lipstick, phone, ID, credit card, cash, enough for cab fare home—her mother’s mantra. “I’m not wearing a jacket inside.”
“You will if I say you will.”
Her gaze narrowed. “Hey.”
He took a deep breath, exhaled. “Sorry.” He drained the rest of his whiskey in a single swallow. She could say Hey all she wanted; no way, she was leaving his side. He’d amused himself in enough of these fuck clubs to understand the rules. There weren’t any. “So,” he said, setting his glass aside, coming to his feet, and holding out his hand. “Ready?”
She took his hand and even in heels, looked up a long way to his faint scowl. “I’m looking forward to seeing one of these clubs. And don’t worry, I’ll stick to you like glue. If you must know, I’m a little intimidated.” She made a little face. “Naked people. Eeek.”
“These high-end clubs only let in the beautiful people. So don’t worry, you won’t be seeing any fat German tourists.” He smiled. “In fact, this club requires that entrants speak French, Russian, or Arabic—in addition to being young, good-looking, and rich. So the naked people are at least physically attractive. No guarantees on personality. Rich people can be massive douches.”
She tapped his chest. “Even rich, young, handsome ones.”
“Hey, babe, just do what you’re told and everyone’s happy.”
“You better be smiling when you say that.” Then she reached up and pulled his face down for a kiss. “Although during August,” she said, the hum of her words warm on his lips, “I’m not entirely averse to a certain number of orders.”
He chuckled. “True. You like orders with sex. Definitely a match made in heaven.” And he kissed her back, lightly, in order not to ruin her lipstick. He knew about makeup and could be polite when required.
Dropping down on her heels, she made a little grumbly sound. “We don’t have to stay long do we?”
“Or we could fuck there. That’s kind of what these clubs are for. Don’t panic,” he quickly said as her eyes opened wide, “I’ll get us a private room.”
“Whew. You had me worried there for a minute.”
He felt a sudden warm, protective zeal, a feeling so alien he mentally scrutinized it for a moment before fully embracing it. “No one sees you but me. You’re my girl.”
Maybe that warm protective wave was operating on a duplicate plane because Nicole felt it envelope her in tender, lambent affection. “I like being your girl.”
“Good,” he said gruffly.
When Nicole and Rafe exited the cloister house, Simon slid off the front fender and moved to open the back door of the car.
“Picking up Ganz?”
“That’s the plan. Then do you mind sticking around in case we want to leave early?”
“No problem. Probably not a bad idea anyway,” he said, holding Rafe’s gaze for a moment as Nicole slid into the backseat.
“Right.” Rafe smiled. “How soon we forget.”
“Best not do that,” Simon said cryptically. “Carlos wouldn’t approve.”
“Agreed.” Rafe arched one brow. “We have company I hear.”
“She won’t notice.”
“Excellent.”
Rafe stepped into the car a
nd Simon shut the door.
Simon took a roundabout route to Madeline’s apartment, making certain they didn’t have a tail. It was still early days since the two men had been spirited out of Macao, but no one was taking any chances.
They picked up Ganz and Madeline and once everyone was seated, the two women were introduced.
“Nice to meet you,” Nicole said, smiling across Ganz at the lovely blond woman who almost matched him in height. “I hear you’re as good as Ganz on the computer.”
“Sometimes. We met online a few years ago. Are you enjoying Paris?”
“Rafe has been making it enjoyable.” Nicole smiled up at Rafe, who had his arm around her.
“She’s easy to please.” Dipping his head, he kissed Nicole’s cheek. “We might not stay all night. Can you get home on your own or do you want Simon to send for another car?”
“Some friends of mine are going to be there,” Madeline said. “We can ride with them or catch a cab.”
Rafe leaned forward enough to see Ganz. “Why don’t we have a car there for you?”
“Sure.” Ganz had been careful to keep his relationship with Madeline hidden, but after the recent upheaval in Shanghai, pursuit was bound to be ratcheted up.
“If I don’t see you later, I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” Rafe said as they pulled up to a nondescript facade in a commercial neighborhood.
A doorman guarded the entrance, but he knew Ganz, so their party was waved in without delay. The club had a dress code requiring a suit or sport coat for men and no trousers for women, so Rafe was wearing a sport coat and slacks. He’d always found that money took care of any dress code requirements, but Ganz had told him what to wear and they were going in as his guests. No point in acting like a fuckwad.
The Chandelier Club was an upscale club, a favorite of celebrities and politicians, a place to see and be seen. Rafe didn’t go to sex clubs to be seen. He went to engage in hard-core kink, so he preferred privacy and perversion rather than the spotlight. But for Nicole’s initial foray into clubs like this, the Chandelier was relatively tame.
After a round of drinks at a neon-lit, glitzy bar all sleek glass and white marble, red leather chairs at the tables, scoops of shiny aluminum for bar stools, Ganz handed Rafe a key to a private room, held up another key, said, “We’re next door to your room if you need us,” and he and Madeline left. A DJ was spinning records and a few dancers were on the minuscule dance floor, although the majority of the patrons were watching a couple at a nearby marble-topped table who were beginning to undress. Nicole couldn’t tell if it was a performance or spontaneous, their disrobing was so languid. But when the man suddenly pushed the woman facedown on the table and began fucking her from behind, a small gasp drifted across the room.
Nicole glanced up at Rafe, who appeared unmoved. “Are they for real or actors?”
He shrugged. “Hard to tell. Want me to ask them?”
“Jeez, no. I was just curious.”
He slid off his barstool. “Let’s see what else they have here. Someone’s screaming in the next room. Could be interesting.” He lifted her down and took her hand. “Stay close,” he murmured and moved toward a large archway.
As they entered a more luxurious bar, darker, mirrored walls, plush carpet, black leather sofas and chairs, lit with several large crystal chandeliers, Rafe pointed to a small stage set in a corner where a performance was under way. A standing woman was tied to a black velvet-covered wall, her wrists and ankles shackled to metal hoops. She was nude except for heels, her back was to the room, and a large man, also nude, his erection impressive, was forcing a huge dildo up her ass.
The bound woman was whimpering now, her screams having quieted, and she could hear the man’s voice over a sound system, telling her if she screamed, he’d ram it in harder.
“Understand?”
“Yes, yes.”
“You can take it all. I know you can. And if you’re good, I’ll let you have my dick after the dildo. Understand?” He paused. “You must answer me.” He nudged the dildo in a fraction more as though to encourage a reply.
She gasped, tensed, whimpered, “Yes, yes.”
“You want to come don’t you?” A low, husky whisper.
She nodded frantically.
“I can’t hear you.”
“I do, I do.”
“That’s what I want to hear. Now, relax, I’m going to push this deeper.”
Her wild scream boomeranged around the room, Nicole sucked in a breath, and Rafe said, “That’s enough of that,” and quickly guided her out of the room. Leading her to a quiet corner of the grand salon next door, he dipped his head and said, “Sorry about that. Would you like to go home?”
Nicole shook her head. “Not yet, but wow, that was rough.”
“Some people like it that way.”
“Really?”
He stifled a smile; that was blushing innocence. “So I hear. Would you like to sit down, have a glass of champagne? Pretend you’re in the palace at Chambord? They brought this room wholesale from there.”
Nicole surveyed the large, high-ceilinged room, an eighteenth-century masterpiece of walls painted with pastoral scenes of beautiful young men and women amusing themselves in the country. Some clothed, others not, the ambiance one of languid arousal. The furniture was antique, upholstered in pastel damask, the carpet a plush reproduction of an Anatolian design, the chandeliers dimmed to a soft luminescence. “Me in a palace with champagne?” She smiled. “Why not?” But as Rafe turned to guide her to a chair, Nicole’s eyes widened. “Ohmygod, Rafe!” she said in a shocked whisper. “Look! That couple on the bar! Don’t they care if people watch? And those two against the wall. She’s giving him head and the crowd around them is—”
“Fucking noisy,” Rafe grumbled as the advice being offered rose in volume. “Unless you’re seriously interested, why don’t we go to that room Ganz got for us, order some drinks, food if you like, and forget about these people. Or if you’d like a private performance, I could order up that too. We wouldn’t have to deal with the goddamn noise.”
“I don’t know… really, a private performance? Is it embarrassing?”
“If it is, we’ll ask them to leave. You decide though. I don’t care.” This was pretty tame stuff, for which he was grateful. He’d grown virtuous, for Christ’s sake, when it came to Nicole.
“Okay, let’s. We can always come back, right?”
“Sure, whatever you want. Let’s go find our room.”
They’d made their way halfway through the crowded salon, Rafe protecting Nicole with one arm around her shoulder, the other in front of her, when a dark-haired man with slicked-back hair, dressed in a showy pearl gray double-breasted suit, stepped in front of them.
His smile was more of a leer. “Nice piece of ass, Contini. Can I have seconds?”
Rafe’s arm tightened on Nicole’s shoulder. “No. She’s my fiancée.”
“Really?” His glittering gaze looked Nicole up, then looked her down, before flicking to Rafe.
“Really,” Rafe growled. “So unless your papa wants to visit his little prince in the hospital tomorrow, I suggest you back the fuck off.”
The interloper flashed a cocky grin. “My papa wouldn’t like that.”
“You’ve met Carlos, right?” Rafe paused, waiting for the name to register. “In case you or your papa are inclined to be stupid.”
Even in the dim light you could see the man turn white.
“So either I punch your fucking lights out right now and we can start a small war or you can back the fuck off. Your call.”
As the man spun around and shouldered his way through the crowd, Nicole looked up. “Have I met Carlos?”
“You might have. He was on the yacht. Brown hair, my height, but built like a bull.”
She shook her head.
“You’ll see him tomorrow. He’s here in Paris. You’ll like him. He plays Chopin like a professional. Good hands.” Especially with a knife.
&
nbsp; “You must play too.” She’d seen the Bösendorfer grand piano in his Geneva home.
“Not much anymore. Occasionally for my mother.” Rafe glanced over her head and nodded at one of his men who’d closed in as Yuri blocked their path, then watched him turn and follow the Russian. “Sorry about that. Yuri likes to think he’s as tough as his father. He isn’t.” He smiled. “Should we see if we can make it to the hallway this time?”
When Rafe opened the door to the private room, Nicole stood on the threshold and breathed, “Jeez…”
When she didn’t move, Rafe said, “Want another room?”
She looked up and smiled. “This little love nest will do just fine.”
He laughed, easing her forward with a hand on her back. “I thought it might have been too much.” He shut the door.
“Seriously, I’m going to be a princess tonight. Gold bed, white satin coverlet, murals on the walls, those big chairs made for poufy skirts, and, if I’m not mistaken, I see a mirror on the ceiling over the bed.” She glanced up at Rafe. “Tell me, do palaces come with those? You’d know.”
“Just for the record,” he teased, not answering the question about ceiling mirrors, “I’m not playing a prince.”
“You can be my stable boy then. That would be, like, forbidden and sexy, right?”
He laughed. “Jesus, tiger, where the hell do you get your ideas?”
“What? It’s not common knowledge? Stable boys are always studly.”
He grinned. “Maybe you’re thinking about their horses.”
She put up her hand. “Okay, that’s too kinky.”
“And this place is too refined, pussycat. So I’m thinking, drinks first,” he said, changing the subject. “What do you want?”
“You said there was a menu.”
Walking over to a gilded desk, he pulled open the drawer and lifted out a leather-bound folio.
“How did you know that was there? I thought you hadn’t come here before.”
“I figured.” He flicked open the pale blue cover and glanced at the table of contents.
“Do all sex clubs have menus?”
Not exactly, unless the question What do you want? counts as a menu. “I’m not sure. I haven’t seen one like this before. Here, see if there’s some drink you like.” He handed her the blue leather folio.
